the days that never came
by MuslimBarbie
Summary: Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. And the truth is that time's gone wrong.
1. One

Word Count: 4475  
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.  
Timeline: This chapter takes place **during _The Wedding of River__ Song_**. It might not make sense if you don't realize that.

* * *

**"We are an impossibility in an impossible universe." - Ray Bradbury**

* * *

Amy wakes up one morning with the strangest realisation: time's gone wrong.

But the oddest part is that she still remembers her life, this life in this universe. She remembers growing up in a park full of pterodactyls, riding in cars that float through the sky, living her life as if that's all normal. Thing is, it's not normal. She remembers all of it, but it doesn't _feel_ real, ya know? It feels distant and strange and _wrong_. And there's only one reason she can think of – time has gone wrong.

It's the most ridiculously stupid thing she could ever say, she knows, but it's the only thing that makes any sense. Okay, yeah, she knows she's never exactly been the best at history, but _this_ – this mad world she's living in – it isn't right. Churchill isn't supposed to be Caesar of the Holy Roman Empire. Charles Dickens isn't supposed to be on the morning telly. Roads aren't supposed to be made up of roller coasters and hot air balloons. It's all she's ever known, but suddenly it doesn't make any stupid sense and no one beside her can see it!

Well, except Sherlock.

Thing is, even he didn't believe her at the start. And really, that doesn't surprise her. Sherlock's Mr Logical, super scientific, and all those other things everyone calls him. And it's not like she doesn't realise everything she says sounds absolutely mad, because she does, but she still believes every word of it. And she thinks that maybe that's what gets through to him in the end – her belief.

Out of everyone in this entire planet, Sherlock knows her the best, and he knows that she doesn't put her faith in things lightly. When she believes something, she genuinely believes it and he knows that. (It's something they have in common, after all.) The only other explanation he could possibly come up with is that she's gone mad, but they both know that's not true.

Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. And the truth is that time's gone wrong.

So they set to work immediately. They do as best as they can with what little they have, because time is broken and they have to fix it.

**.**

They never tell John or Mary about it. She loves them – really she does, they're some of her best mates – but they would never believe her. They would just think she's gone mental and secretly try to 'fix' her or some rubbish. They wouldn't listen to anyone, not even Sherlock, if they said time's gone wrong. And she wouldn't blame them either, because she knows it sounds mad, but she _knows_ it's the truth and she knows that they would only get in her way, so she never tells them.

Amy has no idea how long she and Sherlock work for, collecting books and artefacts that shouldn't coexist. Gathering every little stupid clue they can. It isn't exactly easy keeping track of time when everything is all kinds of wibby-wobbly and timey-wimey, ya know? You can't trust a thing. Just because it feels like an hour doesn't mean it can't be a minute or even a whole day. It's actually pretty bloody annoying when you really start to think about it.

The worst part is that all while they search, she keeps getting this nagging feeling that something isn't right. Besides the whole time gone wrong thing, that is. Sometimes something just tells her that she's doing something wrong, that all this research isn't right. It's like there's this great big thing in her head that's gone missing, but she just can figure out what. She doesn't know how just knows, but she just _does_, alright?

She mentions it to Sherlock once, but he won't hear it. Tell him that time's gone wrong and needs fixing, and he's interested. He'll put everything he can into figuring out why the universe doesn't make sense. But tell him that his methods are wrong and he won't have it. Stupid bloody idiot. He's probably the maddest, most stubborn person to have ever existed. And that's coming from _Amy Pond_.

Still, she listens to him. Solving things and putting puzzles together, well, that's sort of his thing, ya know? It's his speciality and she trusts him. Honestly, she does. Despite anything anyone's ever told her and, really, despite _him_, she trusts him. In this mad, messed up universe that makes no sense, he's the only thing she does trust.

**.**

Everything changes one day when she goes to the bookstore. It's a normal day – April 22nd at 5:02pm – just like any other day has been. But the bookstore part isn't strange or out of her normal routine; it isn't the part that changes anything. No, she's gone there plenty of times – collecting old books is actually pretty important to this case. What's different this time is the journal she finds in the middle of the stacks. It's small and blue and looks a bit like a police box.

The thought stops her in her tracks. A police box? There are no '_police boxes_.' There never have been.

Curiosity gets the best of her and Amy flips the book open. Most of the pages are filled with notes, little stories or quotes, each one as bizarre as the next. They don't make any sense at all. All it does is talk about time and space and aliens and all these things that are not a part of this universe. But the strangest part of it is that they somehow _do_ make sense. And in the middle of the book is one date scratched into the corner of the page.

_April 22__nd__, 2011. _

_5:02pm._

_The day the Doctor dies._

And then, suddenly, Amy remembers everything.

**.**

She comes home with two or three new books and puts them on the dining table where Sherlock insists on doing all his stupid experiments. He doesn't move from his microscope or even react in the slightest, but she knows he sees her. He's just too lost in his work too waste energy on some meaningless comment. He's always been like that; as far back as she can remem–

Never mind. She supposes those memories aren't actually real, now are they? She doesn't actually know him – she never has. In all honesty, he's just some man she collided with when time went wrong. That's all. Nothing else.

Except a part of her knows that isn't true. Not when she stands there beside him, watching him work on their case. It all feels so familiar – the stupid curls in his hair, the ridiculous suits he always wears, the complete focus on his work. And she hates it. Really, truly hates it all. Because, you see, in this fake universe – in this life that makes absolutely no sense – _he_ did. He's the only thing that has ever made any sense to her. He's the only thing that actually felt real. That feels real…

But it isn't real. _They_ aren't real. All of these memories, these things she thinks are so precious, aren't really her memories. They're just some sort of bloody side effect of all the timey-wimey…_ness_. It's just some temporary life she's fallen into. It isn't her actual life. Her actual life is in Leadworth with Rory, it's in the TARDIS with the Doctor. It's all of time and space and mad adventures, not murders and mysteries and detective cases. She doesn't actually belong here, okay? _It_ _isn't real_.

But it _feels_ real.

"Are you planning on staring all day?" Sherlock asks without breaking his gaze.

"And if I am?" she shoots back before she can stop herself. The words just roll off her tongue instinctively. An amused smirk tugs at his lips and he adjusts his microscope. A smile almost comes to her, but she stops it. Mentally, she shakes her head. She needs to stop. She needs to get out of here.

_Now_.

She considers telling him that she's going for a walk, that she needs some fresh air, but she tosses the idea immediately. She knows he'll suspect something right away and follow her and that can't happen. She has to do the opposite. She needs to stay in his range. Make him think he knows exactly where she is and what she's doing, ya know?

"Oi, Sherlock," she says instead, "I think I'm going to lay down for a bit."

She turns to leave, but before she can even take a step, she feels his hand grab her arm. She looks back to see Sherlock staring at her with an odd expression. "Are you alright?" he asks.

"Yeah, just a bit tired, that's all," she explains. The look on his face clearly tells her he doesn't buy a single word. She rolls her eyes but smiles. "Really," she takes a step forward and closes the distance between them. "I mean it." And just to prove her point, she leans down and kisses him. It's a soft kiss and a quick one. Her lips don't linger any longer than they normally would and when she pulls back, she gives him a playful grin. "See? _Fine_. Now either go back to your science stuff or come to bed," she says. Not that there's any doubt which he will choose.

Sure enough, Sherlock smirks but lets her arm go and turns back to his microscope. Amy wrinkles her nose and tells him he's no fun, but grins and turns towards their bedroom. But the moment the door shuts, she leans against it, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath as her smile disappears.

**.**

It doesn't take Sherlock long to come in and spy on her. She's lying in bed with her eyes shut and her back to the door when he peers in. He doesn't linger for too long though – only a moment or two – just long enough to make sure it's actually her and that she hasn't somehow tricked him and run off or something like that. Once he's sure, he closes the door and leaves her alone. Amy waits until his footsteps fade away and she's sure he's back to his work.

She rolls her eyes as she sits up. For such a genius, Sherlock can be so bloody _predictable_ sometimes. Does he really think she doesn't know him or what he'll do? After all this time? Moron. Still, a smile tugs on her lips.

It doesn't last very long. She doesn't let her stupid emotions take control. She _can't_ let them take control. Now isn't the time for tears or second thoughts. She has a universe to fix, after all. She needs to get out of here. She needs to find the others. She only came back to throw Sherlock off. If she had never come home, he would have suspected something and it would have only caused problems.

Amy shakes her head and tosses the blankets off. She opens the dresser drawer and pulls out her letter. She folds it into thirds and puts it back on the dresser, and stands up. She opens the bedroom window, but stops just short of climbing out when her eyes land on her left hand, on the ring on her third finger. Her stupid wedding ring, the one she insisted they buy.

"No. Shut up. Stop it, Amy," she hisses. "This isn't real. He isn't actually your husband," she tells herself as she pulls it off.

Still, she feels something the moment it leaves her finger. It's like there's something that's gone missing and it doesn't seem right, letting it all go like this. Letting the only thing that mattered in this universe drop from her fingers so easily. Letting the only person that mattered go. But she shakes the feeling off and leaves the wedding ring on her dresser beside her letter. There's nothing to let go, she reminds herself, because this _isn't_ real.

Besides, she tells herself, this is _Sherlock_ they're talking about. He'll be fine, just like he always has been. He'll be angry but he will survive without her. Besides, if everything goes according to plan, when she fixes time, he won't have any idea who she is. He won't remember any of this mess. He won't remember _them_. They'll have never met and she'll have never left him. He'll never have felt the pain she's about to cause.

He'll be _fine_.

Normal. Happy.

Without her.

Amy jumps out their window and lands on the cement floor. She'll feel that in the morning, she knows, but for now she ignores it. Instead, she turns and runs. She runs as far and as fast as she bloody can. Away from this fake life of hers, away from the pain, and away from him.

_Sherlock, I remember everything. Time's gone wrong and I have to fix it. I'm sorry. – Amelia_

**.**

She finds River first. As soon as she does, they start building the Order against the Silence. They capture Madame Kovarian, make copies of her eye-patch, capture and trap dozens of Silence. They build their headquarters in a pyramid and River's device to contact the universe. But she doesn't find the Doctor. Or Rory.

Every now and then she thinks the memories are slipping from her mind. That maybe she really has gone mad and this is actually how the universe is supposed to be. She doesn't let those moments last. Instead, she does anything she can to remember. She draws little things, writes down the stories, so that she can remember her life. She paints the Daleks, draws herself as a pirate, and makes a model TARDIS. She does everything in her bloody power to hold onto the memories – her journeys with the Doctor, her adventures with River, her marriage to Rory…

Sometimes it scares her that she can't remember him. Rory – _her_ Rory. Because no matter how much she tries, no matter how many drawings she draws, she can never remember his stupid face. She remembers that she's known him her whole life, that he's her husband, and that she loves him very much. But every time she tries to draw him, every time she tries to picture his face…

_He's blabbering on and on about something or other she doesn't really care about. She thinks it has something to do with the case they just closed, but she can't be bothered to find out. She's tired and has a headache the size of his bloody ego, and his yapping isn't helping. She considers telling him to stuff it, but knowing her luck, that would only make him talk more. Arse._

_So instead she does the only thing she knows _will_ shut him up – she grabs him by the arm and pulls him to her, wraps her arms around his neck, and kisses him._

_A smug grin dances at her lips the moment she pulls back. It doesn't matter how many times she's pulled that trick on him, the look on her moron's face never gets old. For such a genius he's always seems so stupidly baffled whenever she kisses him like that._

_Sherlock's brows crease when he fails to deduce her logic. "What was that for?"_

_Amy smirks, "For shutting up."_

It just doesn't go according to plan, okay?

**.**

Sometimes she considers finding him – Sherlock – and making him a member of her Order. She never does, of course, but sometimes the thought makes her smile. The look on his face if he saw it all – the headquarters in Area 52, the containers filled with Silence, all of the space-wacey things he could have never imagined. Not to mention how ridiculous he would look with an eye-patch. God only knows how he'd take to that.

She thinks she'd impress him. All of the resources she's found, the information she's gathered, the army she's built up. It wasn't easy and she thinks he'd understand that more than anyone else. This mystery, this case – time going wrong – it's what they've spent however long trying to solve.

Amy's not a moron – she knows that she should recruit him. It's the logical thing to do, ya know? It's not about her personal reasons, but because he's Sherlock bloody Holmes. If she made this much progress without him, imagine what she could do if he were here. How much they could do together. But she also knows she can't do it. The memories in her head might be all sorts of jumbled, but she still knows he doesn't belong in this world. His life is murders and mysteries, not time and aliens. As much as he could help, this isn't him, and she won't drag him into this mess.

Amy has to fix time. _She_ has to save the universe and everyone in it. Including Sherlock.

**.**

She doesn't have a lot of free time – it isn't exactly easy to relax and have fun when time is broken and you can't seem to find the only bloody moron who can fix it, ya know? But still, every now and then, she makes a little bit of time for herself. Time when she's not running the Order or tracking the Doctor or drawing pictures to keep her memory alive. Time when she can just take a moment to pause and have a bloody cigarette.

It's a rubbish habit, she knows. She remembers that in the other universe she'd quit when she younger because Rory hated it. But this is an entirely different universe and it's not like Rory's around, so she does it anyways. She climbs to the top of the pyramid, up every stupid step, up to where River has her spacey-wacey machine, and lights herself a cigarette.

She sits there, on the edge of the pyramid, looks up at the stars and thinks about her life – the old one (the real one), this one (the not real one), and all the others that could have happened. She wonders how many other Amelia Ponds are running around out there, how many Sherlock Holmes. She wonders if they ever meet. Or was it really just some sort of freak accident that they found each other in this one? In this _impossible_ universe…

Sometimes when she climbs up, she almost expects him to be waiting up for her. For standing on top of this stupid pyramid like it's the roof of their flat. (After all, she said she would never find him – no one ever said that _he_ couldn't come and find _her_.) Sometimes she imagines he's angry, sometimes he's annoyingly smug, sometimes he's too bloody preoccupied with River's machine to even pay any attention to her.

Sometimes Amy imagines that Sherlock finds her.

Sometimes she almost wishes he would.

He never does.

**.**

Captain Williams finds her on top of her pyramid, smoking and imagining, once. He comes up to tell her they're ready to deliver their report on the last Silence's attack, but his eyes watch her cigarette the entire time. Amy rolls her eyes and tosses him her carton. Moron. All he had to do was ask. It's not like she wouldn't have shared.

He catches it, but shakes his head and hands it back to her. "I don't smoke, ma'am. It's bad for your health."

Amy rolls her eyes, but pockets the carton. For a moment she wonders if he was some sort of doctor or something in the real universe. She can't even begin to count how many stupid times John gave her and Sherlock the same talk.

_Sherlock_.

A frown tugs at her lips and she flicks a bit of ash off her cigarette. She watches it linger in the air for a moment before the wind carries it off. The words fall out of her mouth before she can even think to stop them. "Were you married, Captain Williams? Before all of this happened?"

He shakes his head. "No ma'am."

Amy pauses for a moment. "You're lucky then, ya know that right?"

She isn't looking at him, but she doesn't have to be to know that he's staring at her with a bit of a surprised look. She thinks it's the first time they've had an actual conversation, much less one so personal. Not that she has personal conversations with anyone on in their Order. And it's not even that she doesn't trust them, because she does. No, it's that she doesn't want to risk losing them when this is all said and done. Getting close to them, just to never see their faces or hear their voices again when they get home to the proper universe. She's not sure she could handle that right now, losing someone else, so she keeps her distance most of the time.

After a moment, Captain Williams asks, "Were you, ma'am?"

The answer dances on the tip of her tongue and she's just about to tell him everything –about her life here with Sherlock, about her marriage. About how she had to leave him because he's not her husband. Not really. Not in the universe that matters. About how she's married to a man named Rory who she remembers loving very much, but who she can't bloody find, no matter how hard she tries– but something stops her. She doesn't know what it is, but something tells her that she shouldn't have this conversation with him. That she _can't_ have this conversation with him.

So, instead, she takes another drag of her cigarette and looks up at the sky. She watches all the burning lights and closes her eyes. For a moment she pretends that she's out there somewhere and that she isn't dealing with this mess. That she's happy with Rory and has never even heard of Sherlock Holmes.

But her moment doesn't last long and she exhales. She crushes her cigarette against the side of the pyramid and swings her legs back over the edge. She straightens her clothes and tells Captain Williams that they should go back inside now. They have a job to do, after all.

He watches her for a moment. "Ma'am," he says the moment her feet meet the first steps. "I know it's not my place, but smoking_ is_ bad for you."

Amy rolls her eyes, but a gentle smile tugs at her lips. "Priorities, Cap-_tain_. Let's get the universe sorted out first, _and then_ I'll reconsider my bad habits, okay?"

He nods. "Yes ma'am."

**.**

He never called her Amy, not once. It's always been Amelia. Only ever Amelia, no matter how many times she insisted on _Amy_. At first she thinks that's why he did it – because she told him not to and he's an arse so he did the opposite. And while she's pretty sure that's part of it, she thinks she gets it now. You see, Amy's a normal name. She loves her name, but any girl walking down the street could be an Amy. But _Amelia_, well, that's a bit different, ya know? Amelia Pond – it's a unique name. One that's almost a match for a name like Sherlock Holmes.

It's absolutely stupid, she knows. But, then again, Sherlock's logic was never really like anyone else's logic.

Her fingers brush against her drawing of him and she smiles softly.

The door swings open and there stands a grinning River. Amy immediately slides a book over her picture, but not before the other woman can see it. River stares at her with a slight frown. "You miss him," she says. It isn't a question.

"Who?"

River rolls her eyes. "That man you sometimes draw. He was a part of your life here, wasn't he?"

Amy shakes her head. "That doesn't matter. This life isn't real."

"Do you love him?"

Her eyes widen and she stares at River as if she's just been accused of something absolutely mad. "I love _Rory_. Your father, remember?" she tells her. Still, River gives her this look and Amy frowns. She won't have this conversation. Especially not with her _daughter_. It isn't fair. "What was it you wanted anyways?" Amy asks instead. River's eyes light up and a mischievous grin pops up on her lips. And Amy knows whatever news she has to be good, otherwise her distraction would have never worked.

"We found him," River tells her.

"The Doctor?" Amy asks. She nods. Amy grins back.

Looks like it's finally time to fix time.

**.**

"God, I've missed you!" Amy laughs as she hugs her Doctor. And she means it. Really, truly, she does. The last time she was this happy was when she found River. Before that…

_She wakes up to the smell of bacon. Which is weird because she's still in bed and there's no one else that could possibly be cooking. She rubs her eyes and stumbles out of bed and into the kitchen. The sight she finds, however, convinces her that she must still be asleep. Or dead. Yeah, dead actually sounds pretty reasonable right about now. _

"_Morning," Sherlock says over his shoulder as he turns the stove off._

"_Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" she asks. He never cooks. Actually, forget cooking, he barely even _eats_. She wasn't sure he even knew how to turn the stove on, much less fry breakfast. _

_He ignores her question and gestures to the folder on the table. "We have a busy day, Amelia."_

_The realisation quickly dawns on her: they have a new case. It's been two full days since their last one, which means he's probably desperate to get started on this one. Suddenly things make a lot more sense. She walks over to him. "You made me breakfast to hurry me up?" _

_Sherlock holds up a plate of breakfast. "Shall I fill you in?"_

"_Moron." Amy rolls her eyes, but smiles and takes the plate. It's still sweet. You know, in his weird, stupid Sherlock way. She kisses him on the cheek and takes a seat at the table. "Alright, what are we working on today?"_

Well, never mind anything before that.

"Where's the Roman?" the Doctor asks.

Amy pulls back immediately. "You mean Rory? My _husband_ Rory, yeah?" She turns and pulls a drawing off of her desk. It's one of the only drawings she's been able to do that hasn't turned into Sherlock. "That's him, isn't it? I have no idea," she confesses. "I can't find him. But I love him very much, don't I?"

She doesn't mean for the last one to be an actual question – because _of course_ she loves him – but somehow it still falls out that way. And she hates it. She hates not knowing, hates going on these memories based on her feelings rather than her feelings. It's enough to drive anyone mad, so yeah, it turns into a question. One she asks the Doctor. One she _knows_ he can answer.

He doesn't though. "Apparently," he says instead. He looks at her drawing with amused eyes, and she knows she's got it all wrong again. Funny how that keeps happening, no matter how many times she tries to draw down her memories.

"It's so hard to keep remembering," she tells him.

The Doctor gives her this concerned look and for a moment, she thinks he knows. He doesn't, of course. There's no stupid way he could possibly know – he's been locked up in Churchill's palace after all – but the look he gives her is certainly sympathetic enough. "Well, it's not your fault. Time's gone wrong." He goes into the mechanics of it after that. "Now look at it. All of history happening at once."

And she knows she shouldn't say it, but she can't stop herself. It's a question that's been nagging at her from the moment she found River's diary. Since she realised what it meant for her life, for the Doctor's. "Well, does it matter? I mean," she turns her head and looks out the window, looks out at this mad universe she's been thrown into, "Can't we just stay like this?"

She can practically feel the Doctor's surprise – she doesn't have to look at his face to know it's there. This isn't a question she'd normally ask. "Time isn't just frozen," he explains. "It's disintegrating. It will spread and spread, and all of reality will simply fall apart."

Amy frowns, but nods her head once. In a way, she thinks she knew that already. This universe is an impossible one, after all. It can't be allowed to exist.

No matter who exists in it.

* * *

Note: This will be four chapters total. The next three chapters will take place in the "real" universe, but there will be a lot more Sherlock/Amy in those chapters. The second chapter is around eighty percent done, but I need to rewrite a few things before I can post it.


	2. Two

Word Count: 6064  
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.  
Beta'd and Brit-picked by theonewiththeobsessions.  
Note: Flashbacks will not always be in chronological order.

* * *

"**The times we had, eh? Would've had. Never had. In your dreams, they'll still be there… the days that never came.****" – Steven Moffat**

* * *

She finds him in the end – her Rory. Turns out he was beside her the entire time. Captain Williams, the only soldier whose first name she never bothered to find out. Figures, eh? Not that it matters, because she finds him. She finds him and they fix time and the Doctor dies and takes the messed up universe with him. And everything goes back to the way it was before. She wakes up in her bed one morning with the memory of it all.

Rory doesn't remember any of it though. Part of her isn't surprised – after all, he couldn't remember this universe in that one, so it wouldn't really make sense for him to remember that one here, yeah? It's probably for the best. He probably wouldn't be too thrilled over the whole her not recognizing his face thing. He'd never say it, but she'd know. It'd be there, written on his stupid face when he thought she wasn't looking.

But he doesn't remember – he just takes her word for it – and everything falls back into place. They continue with their lives in their new house with their new car and their new jobs. Rory gets a promotion at the hospital and Amy signs a few more modelling contracts. Everything goes back to normal. There are no mysteries, no timey-wimey nonsense, not even a single alien trying to invade the Earth. Everything is just so…_normal_. It's as if the other universe never existed. Which, technically, she supposes, it didn't.

"Here ya go," Amy kisses Rory on the cheek and hands him his cup of tea. She sits beside him with her own cuppa, steals the remote, and flips through the channels on the telly.

Rory laughs, but doesn't protest. He takes a sip of his tea and his nose immediately wrinkles. "Did you put sugar in this?"

"Of course I put sugar in it. That's how you drink it."

"Uh, no it isn't. I've never had sugar in my tea."

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, it is. You've always–" she stops suddenly.

_Amy hops up on the table beside Sherlock's microscope. He tells her not to shake the table while he's doing an experiment, but he doesn't bother to look up, so obviously she didn't actually do any damage. She rolls her eyes. _

"_I'm bored," she announces. _

"_How unfortunate for you." Amy glares at him for a moment before she spots the cup beside him. She picks up the tea. "That's mine," he says her the moment her fingers touch the cup._

"_How unfortunate for you," she mimics, taking a sip of it. The moment she does though, she regrets it. "Ack. God, Sherlock, how much sugar do you put in that thing? I think I might have just gotten a cavity or something."_

_He smirks from his microscope. "I told you," he says, adjusting the knobs, "That's mine."_

"–You've never taken sugar in your tea."

"That's what I just said. Amy? You look like you've just seen a ghost or something."

"Huh? Oh, no." She shakes her head. "I'm just tired. I think I'm going to lie down for a bit."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, I promise." She gives him a quick kiss before he can protest. "I just need a nap." She doesn't wait for his answer. She just stands up and walks out of the sitting room and to their bedroom.

Thing is, if that universe never existed, how come she can remember it?

**.**

_Laws in the Holy Roman Empire don't always make a lot of sense. Hell, not a lot makes sense to begin with, but the laws are definitely the least sense-worthy – All people must wear a woolly hat on Sundays. No woman is allowed to eat chocolate on public transport. Can be hanged for putting a stamp upside down. Illegal to gamble in a library. Cannot ride a horse while drunk. __And so on and so on they go. But the absolutely worst one has to be the hotel law._

_At some point in time it had been decreed that all hotels in the Holy Roman Empire reserved the right to turn down couples if they couldn't provide a proper marriage licence. It's a rubbish law and most places just ignore it because, well, it's a rubbish law and they just want their money. In fact, she'd never even seen a hotel that would turn anyone down. Well, at least not before this stupid case._

_It all has to do with this jewel burglary case they'd taken on. __They've__ been on it for a couple of days now, but Sherlock finally traced it back to an American couple, who just happened to be staying at the only stupid hotel in the Holy Roman Empire that required a marriage licence to get in. And to make matters worse, they aren't official police officers so the hotel refuses to make an exception. Sherlock and Amy dismiss the idea of calling Lestrade before they can even consider it – he would only draw unwanted attention and, knowing their luck, probably scare the buglers off. More than anything else, they need to stay undercover so the thieves don't suspect them. _

"_Too bad John and Mary are on vacation, yeah?" Not that John would have wanted Mary in that type of situation. Not that Mary would have let him stop her. The one time he'd tried to stop her from helping them out on a case hadn't exactly ended in his favour. _

"_That wouldn't work either. I need to get in," he says, pacing back and forth. "There has to be a way in. An obvious one that we're just miss – oh. _Of course_."_

_Amy sits up in her chair. "Got an idea?"_

"_Yes. It's been staring at us in the face this entire." He spins around and faces her. "We need to get married." _

**.**

The details haunt her sometimes. It isn't all of the time, but sometimes, sometimes they're all she can see. And she sees it everywhere – in the setup of the kitchen, in the model of their telly, in the stupid colours of their bed-sheets. It's like she's seeing two different versions: one that's real and one that's not. Thing is, she knows which is the right one (and she _knows_ she knows), but sometimes the wrong one (the fake one, the other one, the not real one) feels real too. And sometimes it's more than she can take.

One night she finds it impossible to fall asleep. She tosses and turns, but no matter how much she tries, she can't find a comfortable position. Finally around three in the morning, she gives up, and lies there, staring up at the ceiling so that her fidgeting doesn't disturb Rory. At least one of them deserves to some sleep tonight. And he does – he sleeps peacefully through the night and wakes up at five-thirty to get ready for his morning shift at the hospital.

But the moment he leaves, she goes back to tossing and turning. At some point, she falls asleep and wakes up on the left side of the bed. Which is strange – and she means really, _really_ strange – because she's never slept on the left side of the bed. It's always been Rory's side, ever since they were nineteen. So why…?

The answer comes to her quick enough: Sherlock slept on the right side. The arse bloody well insisted on it. Demanded it even. Refused to even consider the other side of the bed, no matter what she did. So, eventually, the left side became her side, to the point where she couldn't even imagine sleeping on the right side anymore.

Amy shakes the thought from her head and tosses the blanket off of her.

Except that's not all there is. She starts drinking coffee shortly after that. Strong with a little bit of cream and three sugars – the way she took it when she and Sherlock would be up all night working on a case. Except in this universe, she's never had really had coffee, not a single cup. But in that universe, she lived off of it – she needed all that caffeine to keep up with Sherlock, after all. But the annoying thing is that she doesn't _need_ it here; she just wants it. It's this annoying craving she gets, this bloody addiction she never actually developed. But she can't fight it – she doesn't _want_ to fight it. She just wants her stupid coffee.

Rory gives her the most confused look when she comes home with a coffee machine and a container of it. He doesn't understand, she knows, because it doesn't make any sense from his perspective. She's never shown any interest in it before and he quit drinking it after he passed his medical exams. Still, he doesn't say anything. He just gives her a supportive smile and goes along with it. That's Rory, after all, her stupid idiot who always just takes her as she comes. Never questions her, never forces answers out of her. He just accepts it, because he loves her. And she loves him for it.

(She ignores the part of her that says Sherlock would have suspected something.)

**.**

_She stares at him for a moment, because there's no way in hell he can be serious. Marriage? Really? Them? Part of her expects him to be joking, but, well, this is Sherlock they're talking about. Jokes aren't exactly his _specialty_, ya know? There has to be some catch here. "Okay, explain."_

"_Oh, don't you see? It's obvious – if we get married then we can get into the hotel with no problem. It eliminates any information we would lose through a middle man. It's perfect."_

"_Yeah, except for the part where we're still married afterwards." They've been…well, whatever it is they are (the word 'boyfriend' doesn't exactly suit him, ya know?) and yeah, they've played the doting couple for cases before. But this? This is something else entirely. Neither of them are the marrying type, even if it is for a case – no. Wait. Actually, it makes perfect sense in that context._

_Sherlock waves it off. "We can always divorce when the case is closed." _

_Amy purses her lips and considers her options for a moment. On the one hand, she could play along and marry him. On the other, she could not and possibly let he criminals slip away. And he's right – divorce is simple enough. They could probably get Lestrade to pull a few strings and get their files pushed forward. _

_She nods. "Alright."_

"_Good. Now first we'll need to –"_

"_But only if you ask me properly."_

_Sherlock freezes in his spot and stares at her. "Amelia, you are aware–"_

"_I am."_

"_Then why?"_

"_Because I don't like doing things half way. If you want me to marry you, you're going to have to ask me the proper way, okay?"_

_He scowls. "You're wasting our time. We need to act quickly if we want to catch them. Stop being ridiculous."_

"_Yeah, you do realise you're only wasting more time by putting this off, don't ya?"_

_He glares at her. "And if I refuse?"_

"_Good luck finding someone else who will marry you for a case."_

_He stares at her for a moment and she knows he wants to argue, but she's pretty sure he knows that's the wrong thing to do. After all, if there's anyone on this planet who's nearly as stubborn as him, it's her. He has to make his choice._

_He frowns and looks away. "Willyoumarryme?" he mumbles._

"_Oi, what sort of a rubbish proposal is that?"_

"_Oh, you're just loving this, aren't you?"_

"_Oh yeah."_

_He glares. "And?"_

"_And what?"_

"_Your answer?"_

_She purses her lips again. "I don't know…"_

"_Amelia," he growls._

_She rolls her eyes. "Alright, fine, I'll marry you. No need to be so dramatic about the whole thing. Geez." A smile tugs at her lips and she stands up and kisses him on the cheek. "Now come on, we have work to do."_

**.**

Sometimes she considers finding him. Not _finding him _finding him – she has absolutely no intentions of becoming a detective again – but just finding out where he is, what he's been doing, if he's doing alright. If he's married in this universe like she is. Sometimes she thinks it would help her if he was, because then she'd know she made the right decision. Not that there was ever a decision to make.

She sees him in other people sometimes – in the scarf her neighbour's son wears, in the coat of a stranger walking down the street, in the suits on display in the shop windows. And in the cigarettes she sometimes sees people smoking. Especially in the cigarettes.

They're out shopping when she spots someone carrying the same carton Sherlock preferred. It throws her off so much that she freezes in her spot and stares. She stands there staring like some sort of stupid moron until Rory notices her.

"Amy?" He follows her gaze until it lands on the carton. He shakes his head. "I don't understand how people can have those things. Don't they realise how bad they are for you?"

_Captain Williams watches her for a moment. "Ma'am," he says, "I know it's not my place, but smoking is bad for you."_

She shakes her heads and the thoughts from the other universe with it. She gives Rory a vague answer and tries to push the guilt into the bottom of her stomach. She tells herself to stop being ridiculous and that it isn't her fault that she couldn't remember who Rory was, that she woke up married to an arse who smoked way too many cigarettes. Time went wrong – you can't possibly blame that on her.

And she made the right choice – she left him and fixed time. She made everything right again. Just because she sometimes thinks about him doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean that a part of her regrets it or that she kind of misses that life. And even if she did, it doesn't matter because she made the right choice. She is here, time is right, and she has her Rory again. She doesn't need anything else. She doesn't _want_ anything else.

She tells herself this over and over again, but, somehow, she doesn't completely believe it.

**.**

_They get married within the hour. It's simple, quick, and doesn't really involve anything other than signing a few papers at the local courthouse. It might actually be the least romantic wedding Amy could have ever imagined, but it's practical and so very Sherlock. Still, Amy insists that they stop by the first pawn ship she sees and buy a pair of rings. If they're gonna do this, they have to look the part, yeah?_

_It doesn't take long to close the case once they're inside the hotel. They play the part of the affectionate newlywed couple and pretend to make friends with the thieves. In fact, the stupid idiots invite them over for drinks before the night's end. Of course, once they're in, it only takes Sherlock a matter of minutes to find the stolen jewels. The other couple barely even puts up a fight. It's all pretty anti-climactic, really._

"_Sherlock," Amy says sticking her head into the dining room, where he's busy working on some experiment. "The divorce papers came in."_

"_Good. Do tell me when you're done with them so that I can sign."_

_Amy stares at him for a moment. "You're kidding, right? You don't seriously expect me to fill out this thing on my own, do ya? It's huge!"_

"_It requires time that I can better spend elsewhere," he explains as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. _

"_And you don't think I have better things to do?"_

"_Um, no, I do not."_

_She glares at him and the anger grows until she can't take it. She doesn't even think, she just throws the bloody packet at him. It smacks him on the side of the head and startles him so much that he nearly knocks his experiment over. He yells something, but she doesn't pay attention. She crosses her arms and continues to glare at him._

"_I'm _not_ filling those out."_

"_Well, I certainly have no intention of wasting my time on such needless paperwork."_

"_Neither do I."_

"_Fine."_

"_Fine!"_

_They glare at each other for a moment more before Amy huffs and storms out of the room. "And," she calls back, "I'm keeping the ring!"_

**.**

She thinks that shopping might be one of her favourite things to do when she's bored. Which has actually been happening quite a lot lately. Rory has the oddest schedule at the hospital and her modelling contracts tend to be a bit sporadic, and that usually leaves her home alone and bored. And Amy doesn't do well with boredom, so she shops instead. There are quite a few more shops near their home here than there ever were in Leadworth.

It's on one of those days that she walks by a pawnshop. Normally she would pass it by without thinking about it, but something about this particular one sticks out at her. It gives her this nagging feeling, like she's been there before, even though she's fairly sure she hasn't. Still, the curiosity gets the best of her and she gives in.

There's nothing that particularly sticks out to her about the shop. It's just your boring, average pawnshop – a few tellies, some furniture and various other trinkets. She's not sure what she was expecting, honestly. It's not like there was something that was going to sit there and scream timey-wimey, spacey-wacey to her, ya know? She's pretty sure those days are behind her now that the Doctor's de–

They're just behind her now, _okay_?

She shakes the thoughts from her head and turns to leave when she spots it. Sitting there, in the middle of all the jewellery, is a diamond ring. It's a simple ring, nothing too intricate, with an average sized jewel on it. But Amy recognises it immediately and she asks the shopkeeper to see it without even stopping to think.

Her hands don't shake when she holds the ring. No sparks go shooting down her body or feel any big of new life dig into her. It's nothing stupidly sentimental like that. She doesn't even bother taking off her wedding ring when she tries it on. But still, it fits so perfectly, so comfortably, like the stupid thing's always belonged there, even with the other ring already there. It shouldn't, but it does. It's like a piece of her was been missing and she didn't even notice, but now it's suddenly back again and she can't really imagine letting it go again. It just sort of _belongs_ there, ya know? And she thinks that – that ridiculous sense of belonging, that way it just fits – convinces her to do it.

Amy smiles and tells the shopkeeper that she'll take it. She knows that she probably shouldn't wear it, and, honestly, she probably won't. But, she decides as she slips the box into her coat pocket, that doesn't mean she can't have it nearby. Because, more than anything else, she just wants it. She doesn't have to do anything with it. Just as long as it's with her, ya know? That's all that matters.

She leaves the shop with the ring and a new sense of determination. She knows what she has to do now. She doesn't know how she could have denied it for long. She's has to find him. She's _going_ to find him. She's going to find Sherlock Holmes.

**.**

_One morning Amy wakes up with the strangest feeling that something isn't right. And by something, she means pretty much everything. She lays in bed, thinking about the cars in the sky, Caesar Winston Churchill, and Charles Dickens reporting on the morning telly. None of it feels right. None of it _is_ right. She can't explain it, but she just knows somehow. It's almost as if time has…_

_She shakes her head. How could time possibly go wrong? That makes less sense than anything else. She thinks that might be the most ridiculous thing she's ever thought before. But the thought refuses to leave her, even after she tosses the covers off of her and dresses for the day._

_Sherlock doesn't say anything when they have their morning tea, but she knows he can tell something isn't right with her. He flips through his morning paper, but his eyes occasionally glance at her and a frown tugs at his lips. Part of her finds it absolutely annoying, but she knows that if she snaps at him for it, it'll only lead to questions she's not sure she can answer. So she smiles, finishes her cup, kisses him on the cheek, and tells him that she's taking a walk. She just needs some fresh air._

_Yeah, turns out taking a walk right after you wake up thinking something's wrong with the universe might not be her best idea. It's all so strange, so bizarre - trains zipping through office buildings, Roman guards riding their chariots down the busy streets, Cleopatra negotiating peace treaties with Winston Churchill. It's all so ridiculous. It's all just seems like something out of some sort of twisted fairy-tale, ya know? It doesn't seem _possible_._

_Amy collapses on a park bench and rubs her temples, trying to ignore the screeching pterodactyls flying around. There's only one explanation. It doesn't make any sense, but somehow it's the only thing that seems to make any sense at all. All of this – this entire universe – doesn't make sense. It's almost as if time's collapsing in on itself. But that's not possible… is it? _

"_Amelia?" A hand rests on her shoulder._

_She jumps and turns around to find a frowning Sherlock behind her. For a moment she's surprised to see him – did he follow her? A frown tugs at her lips, because the answer's obvious – of course he followed her. This is _Sherlock_ they're talking about. She should have known that he would do that. He has that annoying habit of following people, after all. How could she have forgotten that? Is she really that distracted? _

_Amy shakes the thoughts off and fakes a smile. "Oi, what did I tell you about following me?"_

_He doesn't respond. Instead, he stands there staring at her for a moment and she knows he's trying to figure something out. Finally his frown deepens. "Are you alright?"_

_A lie dances on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it at the last minute. She stares back at him for a moment, debating her options. She knows the rational thing to do would be to just tell him that she's fine, but something stops her. This is Sherlock, after all – if there's one person in this entire universe that she can talk to, it's him. It's absolutely irrational and completely ridiculous and she's pretty sure he won't believe her, but she tells him anyway._

"_No," she shakes her head. "I'm not."_

"_Did something happen?"_

"_Sherlock, I… I think that there might be something wrong with time." _

**.**

At first she considers phoning him – she can still remember his mobile number perfectly, down to the very last stupid digit – but she doesn't. Having people and places the same in different universes is one thing, but technology isn't. Things and wires and signals and things can get all sorts of jumbled, ya know? Besides, even if it was the right number, what would she even get out of a phone call? That he still uses the same type of phone in this universe? Yeah, that'll mean something.

She wants to find him to see how he is, hearing his voice won't tell her that. She needs to see him, stand in front of him and have a conversation. So she goes to their old flat in London. It actually isn't that far from her and Rory's new house and it only takes her a ten minute cab ride to find it.

Amy's not exactly sure what she expects to find – people lining out the door with cases, some stupid criminal trying to break in, Mycroft coming to harass his brother about something or other. Whatever she expected, it isn't there. The only thing she finds at 221B Baker Street is a flyer that tells her the flat is up for rent. There's no sign of Sherlock or John or even Mrs Hudson around. It's as if they never even existed. As if they've never lived here.

It's the strangest thing, imagining Sherlock not living here. This flat was his home – bullet holes and all – and he was always too bloody stubborn to ever leave it. But she shakes her head and reminds herself that this is a different universe. Some things were bound to change, after all. If everything were the same, there would have never been a need to fix time like she did. If everything were the same, she'd be living in that flat with him.

She decides to see Lestrade after that. Half of Sherlock's cases always came from him, so he'd be able to tell her where the consulting detective is. But the moment she shows up at the office, the secretary at the front tells her that he was sacked six months ago. She doesn't give her any details and practically shoos her out the door. Amy catches a glimpse of Anderson and Donovan on her way out and part of her considers cornering one of them and seeing if they could tell her about Sherlock, but she shakes the idea immediately. She might have gotten along alright with the two, but they didn't exactly have the best relationship with Sherlock, so she doubts they'd be willing to help. Especially now when they have no idea who she is.

She searches the papers after that, looking for any sign of the consulting detective's name in the crime reports, but it's never there. Not in a single one. She even shows up at a few crime scenes that she thinks he'd be interested in, but he's never there. And it doesn't make any sense! What, is he not a consulting detective in this universe? She supposes that could be an option – after all, Rory was a _captain_ in that universe – but she can't imagine him doing anything else. Mysteries have always been sort of Sherlock's thing, ya know? You can't have one without the other, alright? It just doesn't work. That job was his life – he lived and breathed it. The moron went bloody mad if he went more than two days without some sort of case

No, she decides, he's in there somewhere. She just has to look harder.

**.**

_Sherlock doesn't say anything after that. She tells him that she thinks that there's something wrong with time and he just goes silent. Part of her expects him to tell her she's an idiot or some other insult, but he doesn't. The arse just stares at her with a blank face before he turns and walks away. Amy wants to call out after him, follow him and get his bloody attention, but she knows it's no use – Sherlock's gone off to think and once that starts, there's no stopping it. _

_She goes back to their flat in the end and tries to distract herself. She straightens up a few things, looks over a few past case files; she even tries to figure out a few of Sherlock's experiments. None of it works, of course (as if things would ever go the way she wants them to. Ha!) and no matter what she does, she can't shake the feeling that it isn't right. That this doesn't matter, that this _can't_ matter, because it isn't real. She doesn't know how that's even possible, but the more she thinks about it, the more it makes sense._

_He comes home nearly two hours later, the same empty expression on his stupid face. And she can't help it – she starts defending herself. Their world doesn't make any sense! How can there be people who drive carriages of horses around while there are cars floating in the sky? Or why would they need a calendar if every day is the same bloody day? Or how about the fact that they live in the Holy Roman Empire when there's nothing holy or Roman about it? Hell, she's not even sure it's an actual empire! _

"_Amelia – "_

"_No, Sherlock, you have to listen to me!"_

"_Well, if you would listen to me–"_

"_Shut up. I know it sounds mad, but it doesn't make any sense! If you would only stop and think about it–"_

"_Amelia!" he snaps, taking her by the shoulders. "I believe you." _

_Her eyes widen and her breath catches. "What?" she asks. She didn't realise how much she wasn't expecting him to say that until just then._

"_It's the only reasonable solution. Another would be that you've gone mad, but I don't think that's the case. And you're right, things don't add up. It isn't probable; however, I don't think it's impossible."_

"_And __once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth," she finishes for him._

"_Precisely." _

_He expands on it from there – starts talking about all of the things that don't make sense with the universe and possible ways they can go about exploring the problem. And Amy knows she should be listening, she knows it's important and this is the part where they're supposed to start working together, as if it's just another one of their stupid cases together. But the truth is that it isn't just another case. This is _time_ they're talking about and how it's gone wrong. How he actually believes her when she says that._

"_Oi," she says. He turns to face and, the moment he does, she pulls him close and hugs him. He stands still for a moment, probably confused, before he relaxes and wraps his arms around her waist and hugs her back. "Thank you," she mumbles. _

_And she means it. Because, you see, it's been forever since they had the case with that ridiculous hotel and their rushed wedding. Technically, they've been husband and wife for ages now. But, for the first time, Amy thinks she finally understands what it means to be married to someone. To have someone who trusts her wholly and fully, even when she says things that shouldn't make sense, ya know? She finally gets what it means to have a _partner_._

_Sherlock doesn't say anything, but she doesn't really expect him to (he's rather rubbish when it comes to affection… not that she's always that much better than him). Still, she thinks he knows what she's trying to tell him. He's Sherlock Holmes after all – he's not half bad at making deductions. _

_After a moment she pulls back, gives him a quick kiss, and smiles. "Now come on," she says, walking past him, "We have work to do."_

**.**

"_You look, but you do not observe."_

She thinks that maybe that was one of Sherlock's favourite things to say. Unfortunately, it was also one of his most annoying ones. Anytime anyone ever questioned how he had deduced something, he would recite it in some variation or other. He would go on and on about how the answers were in front of their faces but people were always too blind or lazy or just stupid to see it.

Amy hated whenever he would say that to her – treat her like she was some sort of a moron who couldn't see the obvious. But she couldn't deny that it was true. If there's one thing she ever learned from Sherlock Holmes it's that the answer is almost always in front of your face – the key is to notice it.

And it's sort of funny how it works out like that in the end. She spends nearly two weeks searching and researching him. Looking for any signs of Sherlock Holmes or his whereabouts or even the slightest clue that could tell her how he is. But, in the end, it turns out that he's been there, right in front of her stupid face, the entire time.

She's in the middle of researching a series of seemingly unrelated murders when the telly blasts the news annoyingly loud and breaks her attention. Amy glares over her shoulder and opens her mouth to tell Rory to lower the volume except, before she can say anything, she spots him – Sherlock bloody Holmes – on the telly. He's right there in front of her, with his stupid coat and scarf and curls. And a part of her wants to laugh, because the moron would hide from her in the most obvious place, but the reporter stops her before she can.

"In other news, today marks the six month anniversary fake genius Sherlock Holmes's death."

He says more than that – something about a hospital and a man named Richard Brooks – but she doesn't hear it. She just stands there, too shocked to even move. The words play in her head over and over again, but they don't sound right. They _can't_ be right. This is Sherlock they're talking about – her stupid, stubborn, bloody brilliant _Sherlock Holmes_. He can't be dead. He just _can't_, okay?

But the news reporter says otherwise and right then Amy wants nothing more than to break the damned telly. She wants to yell and scream and say it isn't true. She wants to deny it with every bit of her and she wants the whole world to know she doesn't believe it. But she can't, because suddenly her entire body's just gone numb and she can barely summon her body to stand, much less do anything else.

"Amy?" Rory asks turning his head in her direction the moment she stands up. "Where are you going?"

"I need to make a phone call," she mumbles, climbing up the steps.

She locks herself in the guest bedroom and leans her back against the wall. She stands there for a moment before she shakes her head and pulls her mobile out of her pocket. It's technically the first time she's dialled the number, but her fingers dance against the keypad without hesitation. The reporter was lying. It's all some sort of sick joke – she'll prove it once and for all.

However, the phone doesn't ring. Not in the way that it's supposed to, at least. It gives her an odd beeping noise and a stranger's voice answers her.

"_I'm sorry but the number you are trying to reach has been disconnected."_

Her eyes widen and a loud gasp escapes her lips. Her phone tumbles out of her hands and hits the floor with a thud, but she doesn't pay any attention to it. She tries to fight back the tears and she shakes her head again. No, she tells herself, it isn't true. That doesn't actually mean anything. She doesn't even know if that was actually his number in this universe. It could just be some random number that just so happened to be disconnected, yeah?

But she knows that she can't deny it, not when the truth's right in front of her face like that. It isn't just the disconnected phone, it's everything all together: the vacant sign at their old flat, the swarms of crimes drifting around London, the report on the news. It all adds up to the same conclusion. She can't look but not observe. Not this time. Not like this. Not when it's so obvious.

Sherlock Holmes is dead. Really, truly dead. Gone. For good.

She slides down the back of the door and lands in a puddle on the ground. The tears swell in her eyes, but this time she doesn't fight them back. This time she lets them fall freely. This time Amy cries. Because for the first time since the Doctor died, the universe – this universe she fought so hard to save – just feels _wrong_.

* * *

**Note:** This was original ending to the entire fic, but my beta convinced me to continue it. Chapter three is about eighty percent done. Still, my schedule is chaotic so I won't make any promises about when it will be up. My goal is within the next two weeks.


	3. Three

Word Count: 5627  
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be.  
Beta'd and brit-picked by theonewiththeobsessions.

* * *

"**You shimmy shook my bone, leaving me stranded, all in love on my own." – Kings of Leon**

* * *

_Once, somewhere in between their first kiss and their rubbish wedding, someone kidnaps her. She isn't quite sure how it happens – one minute they're chasing after a suspect and the next, someone's knocking her on the back of the head. She opens her mouth to call out to Sherlock, but everything goes all fuzzy and black before she can. She wakes up in some flat she's never seen before, tied to a chair with the suspect grinning at her in this stupidly smug way. _

_Turns out he's some sort of crazed 'fan' of Sherlock's. One who has followed his work for as long as he can remember. And he plans to make her his next victim – use her as some sort of message to show Sherlock that he's ready to play. And, really, she's terrified. How can she not be when she's been kidnapped by some sort of mental serial killer? She may chase them for a living, but chasing someone and actually being held hostage by them is kinda not the same thing, ya know?_

_Still, she refuses to let him see it. Dramatic crying isn't really her thing and she has absolutely no intention of starting now. So Amy just puts up her bravest face, points out how cliché his plan is, and acts as if she's bored by the whole thing. _

"_We'll see how cliché you think it is when you're dead."_

"_That's another thing: you talk real big for someone who's just made the biggest mistake of his life. Just wait until Sherlock gets here."_

_He laughs at her. Loudly and mockingly. And for a moment her fear fades and all she wants to do is knock that stupid smirk off his bloody face. "You really believe he'll be upset over you? Ha! You're nothing more than that doctor's replacement. Just another person to stand there and listen to him talk. He'll find someone else when you're gone. You can't honestly believe you mean something to him, can you?"_

_Amy smirks. "Actually, I'm sort of his girlfriend."_

_It's sort of funny watching the expressions flash across his face – to go from surprise to horror to absolute disbelief to anger to some sort of bitter amusement. He forces a smirk. "You're lying."_

"_Oh, come _on_. I've been working with Sherlock for how long? You can't actually tell me you've been spying on him for so long and haven't noticed that I _live_ with him. Pur-_lease_. What did you think was going on there?"_

"_Shut up."_

"_So tell me, if you know really know Sherlock so well, how do you think he's going to react to you kidnapping me now?"_

"_I said _shut up_!" he snaps._

_Turns out Mental Serial Man doesn't take too kindly to being proven wrong. (Or threatened. She's not actually sure which it is.) He responds by pointing his gun at her forehead. Her mouth snaps shut and her eyes widen. He immediately smirks and traces the gun around her face, from her forehead to her nose to her jaw. And this time, this time she really is too scared to do anything. _

_In fact, she's so bloody scared that she doesn't even notice Sherlock until her captor's lying unconscious on the ground. She isn't quite sure what happens after that – it all sort of blurs together into one giant mess – but Lestrade and Donovan come in with their guns pointed at Mental Serial Man and suddenly Sherlock is crouched in front of her, untying her from the chair._

_His hands remain steady as he inspects her for any signs of an injury and his voice is even as he asks her if he did anything to her and if she's alright. Still, she can see the anger dancing in his eyes when he looks up at her and, for a moment, she wonders what would have happened to Mental Serial Man if Lestrade and Donovan weren't here to protect him from Sherlock. _

_She shakes the thought from her head and takes a deep breath. Even with the psycho cuffed up, they still have a job do. They can't both afford to be so emotional right now and let's face it: Sherlock's not exactly the best at controlling his anger. So she forces a smile onto her face and stands up. Looks like she'll have to be the reasonable one. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"_

_Sherlock frowns and stands up. "Well, you were just kidnapped and threatened."_

"_Psh. That guy? Please, it'll take more than some deranged fanboy to get to me." She waves him off as Donovan drags the cuffed criminal out of the flat. Amy pushes past Sherlock and walks over to Lestrade. "Oi, Inspec-_tor_. Today's your lucky day – the moron confessed everything to me. Are you ready for my statement?"_

_She doesn't give him the chance to respond. Instead, she grabs him by the arm and drags him out of the room as she explains everything. She ignores Sherlock and the look in his eyes that clearly says he knows she's not alright. The one that says he knows she's lying._

**.**

It takes her an entire week to convince herself to find his grave. She doesn't bring flowers or anything like that when she goes. Sherlock always hated those sorts of things, after all – said he never understood the point in them. He never fully grasped the whole sentiment thing, even after the time she sat him down and tried to explain it. He'd just asked ridiculous questions that she hadn't quite known how to answer and it just ended in them screaming at one another.

Amy smiles softly, sadly. They really were an impossible pair, the two of them. They spent so much of their time just arguing with one another, both of them too bloody stubborn to ever admit that the other might possibly not be wrong. They once went an entire week without speaking over something she can't even remember. But, somehow, that didn't matter. They could fight, scream, and bicker to the ends of the Earth, but it just sort of _worked_ for them, ya know?

It wasn't anything like being married to Rory. Don't get her wrong, because she loves Rory – she really does – but it's just… _different_. Rory is safe, he's sane. He's her little piece of normalcy, the one that keeps her grounded and attached and real. But Sherlock, he's… well, he's one of the maddest men she's ever met in her life (and she's travelled with _the Doctor_). He was annoying and brilliant and drove her up the stupid wall way too often. But it was exciting and challenging and absolutely impossible.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, they land on the headstone. Her fingers brush against the top of the stone and for a moment she has no idea what to do. What exactly are you supposed to do in front of the grave of a man you've never actually met, but remember being married to? How do you even react to that sort of thing? (You think after all the timey-wimeyness, she'd be better at this.)

"You know," she finally says, "Sometimes I wondered if we were meant to meet. If there could have been an Amelia Pond and Sherlock Holmes out there, solving crimes in a universe that actually made sense. One that didn't have pterodactyls flying in parks or cars attached to hot air balloons or any of that nonsense," she laughs and a few tears slip from her eyes. "I wondered if we could ever have existed in a world where time hadn't gone wrong. But now... now I don't think that's possible. Maybe we _were_ just some sort of a freak accident – two mad people who just sort of collided, ya know?

"And you know what? Maybe we weren't supposed to be. But, I don't care, because we _did_. And you might have been an arse, but I probably drove you just as mad. And I know you probably don't know who I am, but I don't think I'll ever forget you, Sherlock. I remember all those cases we solved, those adventures we had, all those times... the ones you'll never know."

She has more to say – how she hopes he was happy in this life, how she doesn't believe the things they say about him being a fake, how he's an arse for leaving her before she could ever find him. How much she misses him – but her visions all blurred and it's kind of hard to _think_, much less talk.

She takes a deep breath and tries to calm herself, because a part of her thinks she needs to say this. Needs to get this all out so that maybe she can let go and move on with everything. He isn't her husband anymore. Hell, technically, he never was her husband to begin with. And now he's gone. Dead. No more. That's it. Show's over ladies and gentlemen – Sherlock Holmes has left the building.

But it doesn't work. Because the thing is, she doesn't think she _can_ let it go. She loves Rory – she's happy with him and she has absolutely no intention of ever leaving him. But how in the world can she just let this go? He wasn't just some stupid stranger she met on the street somewhere. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, her partner, her _husband_. Fake universe or not, there was a time when a part of her thought he was always going to be there. That was her life and there was no changing that, because that was what she wanted.

That was what she loved.

Amy shakes her head and tries to blink back the tears. Because the thing is, she _has_ to let it go. She has no choice. She never had a choice. Not when it came to meeting him and definitely not when it came to leaving him. It was him or the universe – there was never a competition. And yeah, it sucked. It still sucks.

But she doesn't have a choice, so she turns around and leaves. She leaves because she has a husband and a daughter and a career here. She has life here, one that Sherlock was never part of. One that he could never be a part of. Not now. Not anymore. So she turns around and leaves and tells herself that there's no looking back.

No matter how much she wants to.

**.**

_She doesn't sleep that night, of course. She tosses and turns in her bed, counts sheep, and all those stupid other tricks that are supposed to help, but none of it works. Because every time she gets close – every time she closes her eyes – she sees _him_. Amy knows that, logically, that can't happen. Mental Serial Man's gone, taken away, locked behind bars. But even when she knows that and even though she can fake the tough act, she can feel the gun pressed against her forehead, tracing the edge of her face, his finger ready to pull the trigger any moment. _

_So she tosses the blanket, tired of just lying in bed like some sort of scared moron, and peers out the bedroom door. For a moment, she considers going to Sherlock's room, and she makes it all the way to his door, her fingers just short of his doorknob, before she stops herself. She shakes her head and almost wants to laugh at herself. Sherlock and her might be, well, whatever the hell they are, but she doubts he's the comforting type. The arse would probably just get annoyed with her. He's faced how many crazed serial killers? He's probably used to the whole thing by now. _

_So instead, she grabs a glass from the kitchen and a bottle of scotch from the cabinet, and turns the telly on. A rubbish show will help her forget. Something so awful that it could only be on at this hour. _

_It doesn't even take Sherlock half a glass of scotch to come out of his room, his blue robe careless thrown on over his pyjamas. He's even got a bit of a bedhead, which means she probably even woke him up. The tiniest bit of guilt swells in her stomach, but she can't bring herself to apologise. Instead, she finishes her glass, shrugs, and flips through the channels._

"_Couldn't sleep," she mumbles without being asked._

"_Obviously," he answers automatically. _

_She glares at him for a moment, but he just stands there, staring at her, and she can practically feel him deducing her. Part of her considers throwing something at him and telling him to knock it the hell off, but she doesn't. Instead, she pours herself another glass and flips through some more of the channels. It can't possibly be this hard to find a rubbish show. What else would they be willing to air at this stupid hour?_

_He sighs behind her. "Amelia, I understand that today must have been frightening for you. I would also understand if you decided you no longer wanted to work with me."_

"_I'm not quitting," she snaps back._

_She can practically hear him frown as if he had been expecting her answer to be something else. "Are you sure? I imagine anyone else in your situation–"_

_Amy turns her head back and glares at him. "Yeah, well, I'm not anyone else so I'm not going anywhere, _okay_?"_

_He pauses for a moment and she knows he's reading her, trying to deduce whether she actually means it. She does and it doesn't take him long to come to that conclusion. A small, almost proud smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "As you wish," he tells her. She doesn't say anything, but she smiles back at him._

_Sherlock turns to leave and her eyes immediately widen. Without stopping to think about it, she calls after him. "Stay for a bit, will ya?" He freezes and Amy doesn't have to see his stupid face to know he's surprised – genuinely taken back by her request. This is Sherlock, after all. There's a reason she picked the telly over his room. She shakes her head. "Never mind. Forget I said it," she mumbles._

_She turns back to the telly and goes back to flipping through the channels like some sort of madwoman. She makes it through at least twenty or so channels before Sherlock takes the controller from her hands. An '_oi_' jumps out of her lips, but he ignores it. Instead, he mumbles something about choosing what to watch as he sits down beside her and turns it to some sort of news program. _

_Amy watches him for a moment before she smiles. Without even bothering to think about it, she leans her head against him. He tenses up for a second – it doesn't surprise her; even after what they've become, he's still not completely used to her touch – but he doesn't move away. The tension stays, but after a beat or two, he moves his arm around her shoulders, and her head falls against his chest. _

_They sit like that, slightly awkward and tense, with their eyes both locked on the telly. She doesn't know how long they stay like that, but at some point her vision blurs, no matter how hard she tries to blink the tears back. They fall from her eyes, quietly at first. Slowly it turns into soft sobs and eventually she can't breathe. And so she cries into his chest while he sits there, being absolutely rubbish at comforting her. _

_But still, he stays. He stays through all of her rubbish tears and wordless emotions, until she cries herself to sleep. He stays with her through the night until the sunrises and she wakes up with a crick in her neck and a stiff body. He stays there even after she finally pulls back and looks at him through widened eyes. He coughs awkwardly and asks her if she's alright now. It's only when she says that she is, he mumbles something about washing up and finally stands up._

_Amy just sits there and watches him, too bloody surprised to move, because he stayed. Him. – _Sherlock Holmes_ – Mr Unaffectionate himself, stayed. He stayed with her. He stayed _for_ her. _

_And she thinks that's the day she decides that she's never going to leave him either._

**.**

As far back as she can remember, Amy's never really been a normal girl. She thinks that part of that is probably because as far back she can remember isn't always the same every time she remembers it. You see, as far back as she can remember changes based on what life she's remembering. She remembers growing up alone with only Aunt Sharon in that big empty house, but she also remembers a life where her mum and dad raised her in a home that never once felt empty or alone. Two separate lives in her head. Both of them, in her head, _at the same time_. And it shouldn't be okay, it shouldn't work, but it _does_.

The Doctor once told her that time is a bit impossible like that. There are a million different universes out there, each with their own little histories, each based off a different set of events, a set of decisions. They stay apart from one another, but sometimes, just sometimes, they collide. In that case, one reality consumes the other and most people don't even notice. But there are a few people who do.

He told her that it doesn't matter if she remembers two events that contradict each other. All that matters is that she can remember them. You see, if you can remember it – if you can see it when you close your eyes, hear it in your head, feel it in your heart – then it happened. That's all there is to it. It's that simple.

Except she wishes it wasn't. Because, you see, she remembers this other universe – this mad impossible one where she lived this entirely different life – and in this universe, she remembers making a decision to let it go. She remembers leaving Sherlock to find the Doctor and save the universe so that she could save everyone in it, including Sherlock. She remembers leaving her ring and her note for him to find and telling herself that it would be okay, because he won't remember any of it anyway. Because she will fix everything and he will return to his life without her – a normal, happy life where he survives without her.

Thing is, he didn't survive, now did he?

He lived in this world, built his career from the ground, only to lose it all too early. And that never happened in the other universe, the one where she worked with him, lived with him, married him. He lived his life fully and obsessively, always ready for the next case. In that universe no one ever accused him of being a fake, drove him to such extremes. In that world, he _lived_.

And that was the deal, wasn't it? If she left him and fixed everything, he wouldn't have her, but he would be alive and alright. He was supposed to survive without her. So what if she hadn't done it then? What if she had just stayed in that other stupid universe and just let things run their course? Maybe it would have been a disaster and maybe nothing would be right, but at least she'd know they were all okay. River, Rory, the Doctor, Sherlock – their lives would be all sorts of chaos, but at least they would all be alive!

But she made her decision, she left Sherlock and found River and tried to fix time. She captured the Doctor and brought him to River and just stood there and let him die. She came back to this universe only to find out that Sherlock jumped off a building and died too. She made her decision to save the people she loved, only to lose half of them in the process. Funny how that works out, eh? After all, it's just like the Doctor said – there are millions of universes out there and the things that distinguish them are the events that happen. The decisions they make.

The decision _she_ made.

**.**

_Every now and then she catches him playing a certain song on his violin. He usually does it when she thinks she can't hear him, so it doesn't happen very often. But sometimes she catches him off guard – usually as she's getting out of the shower or coming home with groceries. Even then, she only catches thirty or so seconds, because he stops or changes the song the moment he notices her. Then the arse avoids the topic in a way that only Sherlock can. _

_One night she wakes up to the sound of violin playing that song and the moment she recognizes the tune, a smirk tugs at her lips. She's got him this time, she thinks as she grabs his blue shirt off the floor and pulls it on. She only bothers to button a few buttons before she get too impatient and leaves the room with nothing else on._

_The music drowns the sounds of her feet pattering against the floor. Still, she doesn't get too close in case he notices her and decides to stop again._

_But he doesn't stop; he just keeps playing and, for the first time, Amy finally hears the whole song. The melody is a bit soft, but somehow still playful and alive. It's an odd combination and it shouldn't work, but it somehow does. An awed smile tugs at her lips, because she's heard Sherlock play a million times before, but never like this. He plays to think, to focus his mind. But this time, it doesn't seem like that. This time, he's playing for some other reason and it's probably the most beautiful thing she's ever heard._

_Eventually the tune fades away and he stands still for a moment. "I'm told it's rude to stare," he says as he lowers his violin and turns to face her._

"_Psh. You're one to talk." She rolls her eyes, but finally moves closer. "Is that the same piece you've been pretending not to work on?"_

_He nods, not in the least bit surprised to her being onto his poorly kept secret. "It is."_

"_It's beautiful," she tells him. And then, after a beat, adds, "So what's the deal with the secrecy then?" He's never bothered to hide his violin playing from her before. Hell, when she moved in, he made it perfectly clear that he had no intention of not playing just because she was around. _

_He coughs and avoids her gaze. "It wasn't finished."_

_Amy frowns. That's a rubbish reason if she ever heard one. He's composted half written songs in front of her more times than she can even begin to count. Why would he keep this one from her? What's so special about this one? She opens her mouth to ask him, but shuts it the moment his eyes meet hers, because suddenly she gets it. You see, this wasn't just an ordinary piece he composed to help think, to focus his mind. No, he wrote this piece with a purpose. He wrote it for a specific reason. And she thinks that reason might just be her. _

_It's almost funny, she thinks, how the world calls him cold and heartless. He's a bloody machine, they say, he doesn't have any emotions. But the truth is, he does. He has so many stupid emotions – he's angry and jealous and passionate. He's protective when he feels threatened, gentle when he needs to be, and even kind… in his own ridiculous Sherlock way, that is. Truth be told, he's the most emotional man Amy's ever met. They just can't see it because they don't want to. But she does._

_And standing there in the middle of the night, watching him awkwardly waiting for her response, she can see it all – the compassion, the tenderness, the affection. All the things he doesn't exactly know how to articulate properly. You see, he doesn't express himself like other people, but that doesn't mean it's not all still there. She understands because, in a way, she's just as rubbish as he is. They make quite the pair, don't they? _

_Amy smiles and closes the distance between them. She pecks him on the lips. "Come back to bed, moron."_

_They're not exactly what you would call a functioning couple. Hell, she's not even sure you could call them a couple at all. They spend most of their "late nights" studying murder victims, they never really share affectionate words, and their idea of a nice dinner is Chinese takeout in the morgue. Sometimes she thinks they spend more time bickering or discussing serial killers than they do on normal conversations. But maybe, just maybe, that's what makes it okay. Because, you see, they're okay with it being like this. They're happy this way. _

_And you know what? They may not say those three stupid words like everyone else does, but that doesn't mean they don't say it in their own little way._

**.**

One morning she gets a note from River saying that she'll pop in for a visit later. It's sort of a ritual they have now – River breaking out from Stormcage every now and then to visit her. The first time she did it was the night after the Doctor brought them to their new house. She didn't give them any explanation as to how she knew they were there. She just smiled and let herself in with a key Amy assumes she'll give River at some point in her future.

That evening, she breaks out a bottle of her favourite wine and waits for her daughter to come home. She tries to be happy and focus on the time she rarely gets to spend with her time-headed baby girl.

"Where are you?" River asks, taking a sip of her wine.

Amy stares at her journal for a moment before she takes a deep breath and puts the book down. "The Doctor's dead," she tells her.

"How are you doing?"

She wrinkles her nose and forces a sad smile. "How do you think?" The Doctor, Sherlock, a whole other stupid universe is gone. "I killed someone."

"In an aborted timeline in a world that never was."

"But I can remember it, so it happened, so I did it. So what does that make me?" she asks. River doesn't answer her question so sighs and just takes another sip of her wine. "I need to talk to the Doctor, but I can't now, can I?"

River doesn't answer her directly. She talks around her answer, asking Amy if seeing him would help. And of course it would, but he's dead. Gone. There's no bringing him back now. Except her daughter has this mischievous glint in her eye – the stupid one that drives her mad every time she answers a question with '_spoilers_.'

"Oh, that man." River grins wickedly. "Always one step ahead of everyone. There's always a plan."

She spills after that – tells her the whole truth. And Amy jumps out of her seat, knocking her glass of wine over the moment the words leave River's mouth. But she doesn't care. The Doctor isn't dead. He faked his death to throw the Silence off his path. Her stupid moron of a Doctor is alive. And for the first time in what feels like ages, Amy laughs. She laughs so full and loud that she even starts dancing like some sort of ridiculous moron. But she doesn't care because he's still _alive_.

They spend the night laughing and celebrating and probably drinking far too much wine. River stays until two in the morning, long after Rory's already gone off to bed. Amy cleans off the table in the garden and takes the wine glasses back to the kitchen. She yawns, stretches, and turns off the lights. It's just as she's climbing up the stairs that she sticks her hand in her pockets and stops in her spot the moment she does.

She stands there for a moment, before she wraps her fingers around the ring and pulls it out. She stares at it and the thought finally rings in her mind, loud and clear. The realisation. And she knows that it's absolutely ridiculous and she's probably just had too much to drink, because there's no stupid way it can be true. It's one thing for the Doctor to do it, but Sherlock? There's no way he could. It isn't actually possible, ya know?

Still, River's words ring in her ears and refuse to shake off. _"Oh, that man. Always one step ahead of everyone. There's always a plan."_

Except if anyone else in the world – in the whole bloody universe – could do it, it would be him. He was always quicker than everyone else, always prepared for what others couldn't see.

So what if he knew something was about to happen? Something big? The reports she read said Sherlock had hired a man named Moriarty to act as villain. That Sherlock was nothing more than a fake. But he wasn't. – He isn't. She _knows_ he isn't. – So what if he found a way? What if he knew something was coming and he found a way to do it? Because if any human could do it, it would be him. He could do it. He _would_ do it.

It's absolutely ridiculous, but the more she thinks about it, the more it makes sense. A hell of a lot more sense than what the news reports tell her. Just because everyone else can't see it, just because they can't notice something like this, doesn't mean it can't happen. And, okay yeah, it's not probable, but that doesn't mean it's not possible. And once you've eliminated the impossible...

Sherlock's _alive_.

**.**

_When Sherlock gets bored, he becomes almost unbearable. He nags and complains and destroys their flat until he finds something to do. When Amy gets bored, however, she finds a more mischievous way to entertain herself. Ones that usually involves annoying him._

_One evening when she has nothing to do and he's busy in the dining room, working on some experiment or another, a wicked idea comes to her. Part of her knows that she shouldn't do it, but a bigger part of her decides that indulging is definitely the best thing to do. What else is she going to do? Watch the same rubbish show on the telly? Yeah, no thanks._

_So instead, she gets up from the sofa and walks into the dining room. She knows Sherlock notices her, but he doesn't react; he just continues on with his boring experiment. Amy rolls her eyes but smirks as she pulls his chair away from the table. An angry protest comes from his mouth, but quickly falls silent when she plants herself on his lap instead. He gives her a look that she assumes is meant to be annoyed, but a bit of curiosity slips through and he just ends up looking ridiculous instead._

_Amy slips her arms around his neck and she gives him a mischievous grin. He opens his mouth to question her, but doesn't get much further than her name before she silences him with a kiss. And not just any kiss – oh no. It's the mother of all kisses – long, hard, and passionate. It's just as he begins to kiss her back that she smirks against his lips and pulls back. She stands up, straightens her skirt down, and turns around and walks back to the sofa. _

_Without a word, she turns the telly on and leaves Sherlock alone, clueless, and probably more than slightly annoyed. _

**.**

This time when she goes to the cemetery, she brings flowers just because she knows he'd hate it. And she knows she probably looks like the strangest thing, wandering over to his grave with a bundle of sunflowers and a wicked grin, but she doesn't care. Let them think her mad – she knows the truth. And she knows she can't prove it or tell anyone, but she knows that she's right and right now that's all that matters.

"You're an arse," she tells the tombstone as if it has any sort connection to its supposed owner. "And I really mean it this time. You actually had me believing your stupid act for a while there too. The great Sherlock Holmes and his dramatic death. Although that part really shouldn't surprise me – you always were such show off, weren't ya? You'd go _on_ _and_ _on_ about things no one else cared about, just so we could know how bloody brilliant you are. – But this? This might have been a bit much, even for you.

"I don't know why you did it – I'm sure you think you had your reasons – but I am going to figure them out, okay? Because you may have the rest of the world fooled, but not me. Not anymore." She crouches down and places the flowers in front of the stone. "I know you're alive. You're out there somewhere and I'm going to find you, Sherlock Holmes. Just try and stop me," she promises him.

She stands up and straightens her skirt before she turns and leave. She doesn't hesitate, doesn't linger – she has work to do, after all.

The game is on.

* * *

**Note**: The last chapter is gonna take a little while to get out, because I need to take a pause from this fic to work on my Sherlock/Amy little bang. Sorry guys.


End file.
